The Valley Of Horses_ A Novel Part 21

The first animal she was sure he killed himself was a hare. It was one of the few times her stone slipped. She knew she had made a bad throw-the stone came to rest only a few feet beyond her-but the motion of throwing had signaled the young cave lion to give chase. She found him disemboweling the animal.

"How wonderful you are, Baby!" She praised him lavishly with her unique mixture of sounds and hand signs, as all Clan boys were praised when they killed their first small animal. The lion didn't understand what she said, but he understood he had pleased her. Her smile, her att.i.tude, her posture, all communicated her feeling. Though he was young for it, he had satisfied his own instinctive need to hunt, and he had received approval from the dominant member of his pride. He had done well and he knew it.

The first cold winds of winter brought falling temperatures, shattery ice to the edge of the stream, and feelings of concern to the young woman. She had laid in a large supply of vegetable foods and meat for herself, and an extra store of dried meat for Baby. But she knew it would not last him all winter. She had grain and hay for Whinney, but for the horse the fodder was a luxury, not a necessity. Horses foraged all winter, though when the snow lay deep they knew hunger until dry winds cleared it away, and not all survived the cold season.

Predators foraged all winter as well, culling out the weak, leaving more feed for the strong. The populations of predators and prey rose and fell in cycles, but overall maintained a balance in relation to each other. During the years when there were fewer grazers and browsers, more carnivores starved. Winter was the hardest season for all.

With the coming of winter, Ayla's worry grew more acute. She could not hunt large animals when the ground was frozen rock hard. Her method required holes to be dug. Most small animals hibernated or lived in nests on food they had stored-making them hard to find, especially without the ability to scent them out. She doubted she could hunt enough of them to keep a growing cave lion fed.

During the early part of the season, after the weather turned cold enough to keep the meat frigid and, later, freeze it, she tried to kill as many large animals as she could, storing them under caches of piled stones. But she wasn't as familiar with the herds' patterns of winter movement, and her efforts were not as successful as she hoped. Though her worries caused an occasional sleepless night, she never regretted picking up the cub and taking him home. Between the horse and the cave lion, the young woman seldom felt the introspective loneliness usually brought on by the long winter. Instead, her laughter often filled the cave.

Whenever she went out and began uncovering a new cache, Baby was there trying to get at the frozen carca.s.s before she had hardly removed a stone.

"Baby! Get out of the way!" She smiled at the young lion trying to wriggle his way under the rocks. He dragged the stiff animal up the path and into the cave. As though he knew it had been used before by cave lions, he made the small niche in the back of the cave his own, and brought the cached animals there to thaw. He liked to worry off a frozen hunk first, gnawing at it with relish. Ayla waited until it was thawed before cutting off a piece for herself.

As the supply of meat in the caches dwindled, she began watching the weather. When a clear, crisp, cold day dawned, she decided it was time to hunt-or at least to try. She did not have a specific plan in mind, though not for want of thinking about it. She hoped an idea would occur to her while she was out, or at least that a better look at the terrain and conditions would open up some new possibilities to consider. She had to do something, and she didn't want to wait until all the stored meat was gone.

Baby knew they were going hunting as soon as she pulled out Whinney's pack baskets, and he ran in and out of the cave excitedly, growling and pacing in antic.i.p.ation. Whinney, tossing her head and nickering, was just as pleased at the prospect. By the time they reached the cold sunny steppes, Ayla's tension and worry had begun losing ground to hope and the pleasure of the activity.

The steppes were white with a thin layer of fresh snow that was hardly disturbed by a light wind. The air had a static crackle of cold so intense, the bright sun might just as well not have been there at all, but for the light it shed. They breathed out streamers of vapor with every exhalation, and the build-up of frost around Whinney's mouth dispersed in a spray of ice when she snorted. Ayla was grateful for the wolverine hood and the extra furs all her hunting had made available to wear.

She glanced down at the supple feline moving with silent grace, and with a shock she realized that Baby was nearly as long, from shoulder to shank, as Whinney, and was fast approaching the small horse in height. The adolescent male cave lion was showing the beginnings of a reddish mane, and Ayla wondered why she hadn't noticed it before. Suddenly more alert, Baby was straining ahead, his tail held stiffly out behind him.

Ayla wasn't used to tracking in winter on the steppes, but even from horseback the spoor of wolves was evident in the snow. The pawprints were clear and sharp, not eroded by wind or sun, and evidently fresh. Baby pulled ahead; they were near. She urged Whinney to a gallop and caught up with Baby just in time to see a wolf pack closing around an old male who was trailing behind a small herd of saiga antelope.

The young lion saw them, too, and, unable to control his excitement, raced into their midst, scattering the herd and disrupting the wolves' attack. The surprised and disgruntled wolves made Ayla want to laugh, but she didn't want to encourage Baby. He's just excitable, she thought, we haven't hunted in so long.

Springing in mighty leaps of panic, the saiga bounded across the plains. The wolf pack regrouped and followed at a more deliberate pace that covered ground quickly but wouldn't tire them before they caught up with the herd again. When Ayla composed herself, she gave Baby a stern look of disapproval. He fell back beside her, but he'd enjoyed himself too much to be contrite.

As Ayla, Whinney, and Baby followed the wolves, an idea was beginning to take shape in the woman's mind. She didn't know if she could kill a saiga antelope with her sling, but she knew she could kill a wolf. She didn't care for the taste of wolf meat, but if Baby was hungry enough, he'd eat it, and he was the reason for hunting.

The wolves had picked up their pace. The old male saiga had dropped behind the main herd, too exhausted to keep up. Ayla leaned forward and Whinney increased her speed. The wolves circled the old buck, wary of hooves and horns. Ayla moved in close to try for one of the wolves. Reaching into the pouching fold of her fur for stones, she selected a particular wolf. As Whinney's pounding hooves closed, she let fly with a stone, and then with a second in quick succession.

Her aim was true. The wolf dropped and at first she thought the ensuing commotion was the result of her kill. Then she saw the real cause. Baby had taken her sling cast as the signal to chase, but he wasn't interested in the wolf, not when the far more delectable antelope was in sight. The wolf pack relinquished the field to the galloping horse with a sling-wielding woman on her back, and to the determined charge of the lion.

But Baby wasn't quite the hunter he strove to be-not yet. His attack lacked the strength and finesse of a full-grown lion. It took her a moment to comprehend the situation. No, Baby! That's the wrong animal, she thought. Then she quickly corrected herself. Of course, he had chosen the right animal. Baby was striving for a death grip, clinging to the fleeing buck to whom stark fear had just given a new burst of strength.

Ayla grabbed a spear from the pack basket behind her. Whinney, responding to her urgency, raced after the old saiga. The antelope's spurt of speed was short-lived. He was slowing. The speeding horse quickly closed the gap. Ayla poised the spear and, just as they came abreast, she struck, not aware that she was screaming with sheer primal exuberance.

She wheeled the horse around and trotted back to find the young cave lion standing over the old buck. Then, for the first time, he proclaimed his prowess. Though it still lacked the full-throated thunder of the adult male's, Baby's triumphant roar carried the promise of its potential. Even Whinney shied at the sound.

Ayla slid off the mare's back and patted her neck rea.s.suringly. "It's all right, Whinney. It's only Baby."

Not considering that the lion might object and could inflict serious injury, Ayla pushed him aside and prepared to gut the antelope before taking it back. He gave way to her dominance, and to something else that was uniquely Ayla: her confidence in her love for him.

She decided to find the wolf and skin it. Wolf fur was warm. Returning, she was surprised to see Baby dragging the antelope, and she realized he intended to haul it all the way to the cave. The male antelope was full grown and Baby was not. It gave her an increased appreciation of his strength-and the power he was still to gain. But if he dragged the antelope all that way, the hide would be damaged. Saiga were widespread, living in mountains as well as the plains, but they were not numerous. She had not hunted one before, and they had a special meaning for her. The saiga antelope had been Iza's totem. Ayla wanted the hide.

She signaled "Stop!" Baby hesitated only a moment before releasing "his" kill, and, guarding it, he paced anxiously around the travois all the way back to the cave. He watched with more than usual interest while she removed the hide and the horns. When she gave it to him, he dragged the entire skinned carca.s.s to the niche in the far corner. After he gorged, he still maintained a vigil, and he slept close by.

Ayla was amused. She understood he was protecting his kill. He seemed to feel there was something special about this beast. Ayla did, too, for other reasons. Surges of excitement still coursed through her. The speed, the chase, the hunt had been thrilling-but more important, she had a new way to hunt. With the help of Whinney, and now Baby, she could hunt anytime, summer and winter. She felt powerful, and grateful, and she would be able to provide for her Baby.

Then, for no reason she could think of, she checked on Whinney. The horse was lying down, perfectly secure in spite of the proximity of a cave lion. She lifted her head as Ayla approached. The woman stroked the horse, then, feeling a need to be close, she lay beside her. Whinney blew a soft snort of air through her nostrils, content to have the woman near.

Winter hunting with Whinney and Baby, without the arduous task of digging pits, was a game. Sport. From the earliest days of practicing with her sling, Ayla had loved hunting. Each new technique mastered-tracking, the double-stone throw, the pit and spear-brought an additional feeling of accomplishment. But nothing matched the sheer fun of hunting with the horse and the cave lion. They both seemed to enjoy it as much as she. While Ayla made preparations, Whinney tossed her head and danced on her toes, with her ears p.r.i.c.ked forward and tail raised, and Baby padded in and out of the cave, making low growls of antic.i.p.ation. Weather concerned her until Whinney brought her home through a blinding blizzard.

The trio usually started out shortly after daybreak. If they sighted prey early, they were often home before noon. Their usual method was to follow a likely candidate until they were in a good position. Then Ayla would signal with her sling and Baby, eager and ready, would spring forward. Whinney, feeling Ayla's urge, galloped after him. With the young cave lion clinging to the back of a panicked animal-his claws and fangs drawing blood, if not actually fatal-it seldom took long for the galloping horse to close the distance. As they came abreast, Ayla plunged the spear.

In the beginning, they weren't always successful. Sometimes the chosen animal was too fast, or Baby would fall off, unable to get a secure hold. For Ayla, learning to wield the heavy spear at full gallop took some practice, too. Many times she missed, or made only a glancing blow, and sometimes Whinney didn't get close enough. Even when they missed, it was exciting sport, and they could always try again.

With practice, they all improved. As they began understanding each other's needs and abilities, the unlikely trio became an efficient hunting team-so efficient that when Baby made his first una.s.sisted kill, it went almost unnoticed as part of the team's efforts.

Bearing down at a hard gallop, Ayla saw the deer falter. It was down before she reached them. Whinney slowed down as they pa.s.sed by. The woman jumped off and was running back before the horse came to a halt. Her spear was raised, ready to finish the job, when she found Baby had done it himself. She proceeded to make the deer ready to take back to the cave.

Then the full import struck her. Baby, as young as he was, was a hunting lion! In the Clan, that would make him an adult. Just as she had been called the Woman Who Hunts before she was a woman, Baby had reached adulthood before he attained maturity. He should have a manhood ceremony, she thought. But what kind of ceremony would have meaning for him? Then she smiled.

She unbound the doe from the travois, then put the gra.s.s mat and the poles in the pack baskets. It was his kill, and he had a right to it. Baby didn't understand at first. He paced back and forth from the carca.s.s to her. Then, as Ayla left, he took the deer's neck in his teeth and, pulling it underneath him, he dragged it all the way back to the beach, up the steep path, and into the cave.

She didn't notice any difference, immediately, after Baby's kill. They still hunted together. But more often than not, Whinney's chase was only exercise and Ayla's spear unnecessary. If she wanted some of the meat, she took it first; if she wanted the hide, she skinned it. Though, in the wild, the pride male always took the first and largest portion, Baby was still young. He'd never known hunger, as his growing size attested, and he was accustomed to her dominance.

But toward spring, Baby began leaving the cave more, exploring by himself. He was seldom gone long, but his excursions became more frequent. Once he came back with blood on his ear. She guessed he'd found other lions. It made her realize she was no longer enough; he was looking for his own kind. She cleaned the ear, and he spent the day following her so closely that he was getting in her way. At night, he crept up to her bed and searched for her two fingers to suck.

He'll be leaving soon, she thought, wanting a pride of his own, mates to hunt for him, and cubs to dominate. He needs his own kind. Iza came to mind. You're young, you need a man of your own, one of your own kind. Find your own people; find your own mate, she had said. It will be spring soon. I should think about leaving, but not yet. Baby was going to be huge, even for a cave lion. He already far exceeded lions his age in size, but he wasn't grown; he couldn't survive, yet.

Spring followed close on the heels of a heavy snow. Flooding kept them all restricted, Whinney more than the others. Ayla could climb to the steppes above, and Baby could leap there with ease, but the slopes was too steep for the horse. The water finally receded, the beach and the bone pile had new contours again, and Whinney could finally go down the path to the meadow once more. But she was irritable.

Ayla first noticed something out of the ordinary when Baby yelped from an equine kick. The woman was surprised. Whinney had never been impatient with the young lion; perhaps a nip now and then to keep him in line, but certainly not enough to kick him. She thought the unusual behavior was a consequence of her enforced inactivity, but Baby tended to stay away from her place in the cave as he got older, sensitive of Whinney's territory, and Ayla wondered what had drawn him there. She went to see, then became conscious of a strong odor she'd been vaguely aware of all morning. Whinney was standing with her head down, her hind legs spread apart, and her tail held to the left. Her v.a.g.i.n.al opening was swollen and pulsating. She looked up at Ayla and squealed.

The series of emotions that came over Ayla in quick succession pulled her to opposite extremes. First it was relief. So that's your problem. Ayla knew about estrus cycles in animals. In some, the time of pairing occurred more frequently, but for grazers, once a year was usual. This was the season when males often fought for the right to couple, and it was the one time one time when the males and females mingled, even those who normally hunted separately or herded in different groups. when the males and females mingled, even those who normally hunted separately or herded in different groups.

Pairing season was one of those mysterious aspects of animal behavior that puzzled her, like deer dropping their antlers and growing new and bigger ones every year. The kinds of things that made Creb complain that she asked too many questions about, when she was younger. He didn't know why animals paired, either, though he had once volunteered that it was the time for the males to show their dominance over females, or perhaps, like people, the males had to relieve their needs.

Whinney had had a pairing season the previous spring, but at the time, though she heard a stallion neighing on the steppes above, Whinney couldn't get up to him. The young mare's need seemed stronger this time, too. Ayla didn't remember so much swelling and squealing. Whinney submitted to the young woman's pats and hugs; then the horse dropped her head and squealed again.

Suddenly, Ayla's stomach churned into a knot of anxiety. She leaned against the horse, the way Whinney sometimes did against her when she was upset or frightened. Whinney was going to leave her! It was so unexpected. Ayla hadn't had time to prepare for it, though she should have. She'd been thinking about Baby's future, and her own. Instead, Whinney's pairing season had come. The filly needed a stallion, a mate.

With great reluctance, Ayla walked out of the cave and signaled Whinney to follow. When they reached the rocky beach below, Ayla mounted. Baby got up to follow them, but Ayla motioned "Stop." She did not want the cave lion with her now. She was not going hunting, but Baby might not know that. Ayla had to stop the lion once more, with firm determination, before he stayed behind watching them go.

It was warm, and damply cool at the same time, on the steppes. The sun, about midway to noon, blazed out of a pale blue sky with a veiled halo; the blue seemed faded, bleached by the intensity of the glare. Melting snow steamed to a fine mist that did not limit visibility but softened sharp angles, and fog clinging to cool shadows flattened contours. Perspective was lost and the entire view was foreshortened-lending an immediacy to the landscape, a sense of present tense, here and now, as though no other time and place ever existed. Distant objects seemed only a few paces away, yet took forever to reach.

Ayla didn't guide the horse. She let Whinney take her, only subliminally noticing landmarks and direction. She didn't care where she was going, didn't know her tears were adding their salty moisture to the ambient dampness. She sat loosely, jouncing, her thoughts turned inward. She recalled the first time she saw the valley and the herd of horses in the meadow. She thought about her decision to stay, her need to hunt. She remembered leading Whinney to the safety of her fire and her cave. She should have known it couldn't last, that someday Whinney would return to her own kind, just as she herself needed to do.

A change in the horse's pace jogged her attention. Whinney had found what she was looking for. A small band of horses was ahead.

The sun had melted the snow covering a low hill and exposed tiny green shoots poking above the ground. The animals, hungry for a change from the straw of last year's forage, were nibbling the succulent new growth. Whinney stopped when the other horses looked up at her. Ayla heard the neigh of a stallion. Off to the side, on a knoll she hadn't noticed before, she saw him. He was dark reddish brown with a black mane, tail, and lower legs. She had never seen a horse so deeply colored. Most of them were shades of gray brown, or beige dun, or, like Whinney, the yellow color of ripe hay.

The stallion screamed, lifted his head, and curled back his upper lip. He reared and galloped toward them, then stopped short a few paces away, pawing the ground. His neck was arched, his tail was raised, and his erection was magnificent.

Whinney nickered in reply, and Ayla slid off her back. She gave the horse a hug, then backed away. Whinney turned her head to look at the young woman who had taken care of her since she was a foal.

"Go to him, Whinney," she said. "You've found your mate, go to him."

Whinney tossed her head and neighed softly, then faced the bay stallion. He circled behind her, head low, nipping her hocks, herding Whinney closer to his flock, as if she were a recalcitrant truant. Ayla watched her go, unable to leave. When the stud mounted, Ayla couldn't help remembering Broud, and the terrible pain. Later, it had only been unpleasant, but she always hated it when Broud mounted her, and was grateful when he finally grew tired of it.

But for all the screaming and squealing, Whinney was not trying to reject her stallion, and, as she watched, Ayla felt strange stirrings within herself, sensations she could not explain. She could not tear her eyes away from the bay stallion, his front legs up on Whinney's back, pumping, and straining, and screaming. She felt a warm wetness between her legs, a rhythmic pulsation in time to the stallion's pounding, and an incomprehensible yearning. She was breathing hard, felt her heart reverberating in her head, and ached with longing for something she couldn't describe.

Afterward, when the yellow horse willingly followed the bay, without so much as a backward look, Ayla felt an emptiness so heavy that she thought she could not bear it. She realized how fragile was the world she had built for herself in the valley, how ephemeral had been her happiness, how precarious her existence. She turned and ran back toward the valley. She ran until her breath tore her throat, until pain stabbed her side. She ran, hoping somehow, if she ran fast enough, she could leave behind all the heartache and loneliness.

She stumbled down the slope that led to the meadow, and rolled, and stayed where she stopped, gasping raggedly for breath. Even after she could breathe again, she didn't move. She didn't want to move. She didn't want to cope, or try, or live. What was the use? She was cursed, wasn't she?

Why can't I just die then? Like I'm supposed to? Why do I have to lose everything I love? She felt a warm breath and a rasping tongue licking the salt from her cheek, and she opened her eyes to a huge cave lion.

"Oh, Baby!" she cried, reaching for him. He sprawled out beside her and, with claws retracted, put a heavy foreleg over her. She rolled over, hugged his furry neck, and buried her face in his lengthening mane.

When she finally cried herself out and tried to get up, she felt the result of her fall. Lacerated hands, skinned knees and elbows, a bruised hip and shin, and her right cheek was sore. She limped back to the cave. As she was treating her sc.r.a.pes and bruises, she had a sobering thought. What if I'd broken a bone? That could be worse than dying, with no one to help.

I didn't, though. If my totem wants to keep me alive, maybe he has a reason. Maybe the spirit of the Cave Lion sent Baby to me because he knew Whinney would leave someday.

Baby will leave, too. It won't be long before he will want a mate. He will find one, even if he isn't growing up in a regular pride. He's going to be so big that he'll be able to defend a big territory. And And he's a good hunter. He won't go hungry while he's looking for a pride, or at least one lioness. he's a good hunter. He won't go hungry while he's looking for a pride, or at least one lioness.

She smiled wryly. You'd think I was a Clan mother worrying about her son growing up to be a big brave hunter. After all, he's not my son. He's just a lion, an ordinary...No, he's not an ordinary cave lion. He is almost as big as some full-grown cave lions already, and he is an early hunter. But he will leave me....

Durc must be big by now. Ura is growing, too. Oda will feel sad when Ura leaves to be Durc's mate and live with Brun's clan....No, it's Broud's clan now. How long will it be until the next Clan Gathering?

She reached behind the bed for the bundle of marked sticks. She still made a notch every night. It was a habit, a ritual. She untied the bundle and laid them out on the ground, then tried to count the days since she had found her valley. She fitted her hands into the notches, but there were too many marks, too many days had pa.s.sed. She had a feeling the marks ought to come together and add up in some way that would tell her how long she'd been there, but she didn't know how. It was so frustrating. Then she realized she didn't need the sticks; she could think of the years by counting each spring. Durc was born the spring before the last Clan Gathering, she thought. The next spring ended his birth year. She made a mark in the dirt. Next was his walking year; she made another mark. The next spring would have been the end of his nursing year and the beginning of his weaning year-except he was already weaned. She made a third mark.

That was when I left-she swallowed hard and blinked her eyes-and that summer I found the valley, and Whinney. The next spring, I found Baby. She made a fourth mark. And this spring...She didn't want to think about losing Whinney as a way to remember the year, but it was a fact. She made a fifth mark.

That's all the fingers of one hand-she held up her left hand-and that's how many Durc is now. She put out the thumb and forefinger of the right hand-And this many before the next Gathering. When they get back, Ura will be with them, for Durc. Of course, they won't be old enough to mate yet. They'll know by looking at her that she is for Durc. I wonder, does he remember me? Will he have Clan memories? How much of him is me, and how much Broud...Clan?

Ayla gathered up her marked sticks and noticed a regularity in the number of marks between the extra notches that she made when her spirit battled and she bled. What man's totem spirit could be battling with mine here? Even if my totem were a mouse, I'd never get pregnant. It takes a man, and his organ, to start a baby. That's what I think.

Whinney! Is that what that stallion was doing? Was he getting a baby started in you? Maybe I'll see you sometime with that herd, and find out. Oh, Whinney, that would be wonderful.

Thoughts of Whinney and the stallion made her quiver. Her breath came a little faster. Then she thought of Broud, and the pleasant sensations stopped. But it was his organ that started Durc. If he'd known it would give me a baby, he would never have done it. And Durc will have Ura. She's not deformed either. I think Ura was started when that man of the Others forced Oda. Ura is just right for Durc. She's part Clan, and part that man of the Others. A man of the Others...

Ayla was restless. Baby was gone, and she felt the need to be moving. She went out and strolled just outside the line of brush that hugged the stream. She walked farther than she had before, though she had ridden as far on Whinney's back. She was going to have to get used to walking again, she realized, and to carrying a basket on her back. At the far end of the valley she followed the stream around the edge of the high scarp as it swung south. Just beyond the turn, the stream swirled around rocks that could have been placed on purpose, they were so neatly s.p.a.ced for stepping stones. The high wall was only a steep grade at this place. She scrambled up and looked out across the western steppes.

There was no real difference between west and east, except for a slightly rougher terrain, and she was far less familiar with the west. She always knew that when she decided to leave the valley she would go west. She turned around, crossed the stream, then hiked the long valley back to the cave.

It was nearly dark when she arrived, and Baby had not returned yet. The fire was out, and the cave was cold and lonely. It seemed emptier now than it had when she first made it her home. She lit a fire, boiled some water and made tea, but didn't feel like cooking. She took a piece of dried meat and some raisined cherries and sat on her bed. It had been a long time since she was alone in her cave. She went to the place where her old carrying basket stood and rummaged around in the bottom until she found Durc's carrying cloak. Bunching it up, she crammed it to her stomach and watched the fire. When she lay down, she wrapped it around her.

Her sleep was disturbed by dreams. She dreamed of Durc and Ura, grown up and mated. She dreamed of Whinney, in a different place with a bay colt. She woke once in a sweat of fright. Not until she was fully awake did she understand that she had had her recurring nightmare of rumbling earth and terror. Why did she have that dream? She got up and stirred the fire, then warmed her tea and sipped it. Baby still wasn't back. She picked up Durc's cloak, and recalled again Oda's story about the man of the Others who had forced her. Oda said he looked like me. A man like me, how would one look?

Ayla tried to visualize a man like her. She tried to recall her features as she had seen them reflected in the pool, but all she could remember was her hair framing her face. She wore it long then, not tied up in many braids to keep it out of the way. It was yellow, like Whinney's coat, but a richer, more golden color.

But every time she thought of a man's face, she saw Broud, with a gloating sneer. She could not imagine the face of a man of the Others. Her eyes grew tired and she lay down again. She dreamed of Whinney and a bay stallion. And then of a man. His features were vague, in a shadow. Only one thing was clear. He had yellow hair.

15.

"You're doing fine, Jondalar! We'll make a river man out of you yet!" Carlono said. "In the big boats, it doesn't matter so much if you miss a stroke. The worst you can do is throw off the rhythm since you are not the only rower. In small boats, like this, control is important. To miss a stroke can be dangerous, or fatal. Always be aware of the river-never forget how unpredictable she can be. She's deep here, so she looks calm. But you only have to dip your paddle in to feel the power in her current. It's a hard current to fight-you have to work with it."

Carlono kept up the running commentary as he and Jondalar maneuvered the small two-man dugout near the Ramudoi dock. Jondalar was only half listening, concentrating instead on handling the paddle properly so the boat he was guiding would go where he wanted it to, but he was understanding at the level of his muscles the meaning of the words.

"You may think it's easier to go downstream because you are not fighting her carrent, but that's the problem. When yon are working against the flow, you have to keep your mind on the boat and the river all the time. You know if you let up you'll lose all you've gained. And you can see anything coming soon enough to avoid it, "Going with her, it's too easy to slack up, let your mind wander and let the river take you. There are rocks midstream whose roots are deeper than the river. The current can throw you at them before you know it, or some water-soaked log lying low in the water will hit you. 'Never turn your back on the Mother.' That's the one rule never to forget. She's full of surprises. Just when you think you know what to expect and take her for granted, she'll do the unexpected."

The older man sat back and pulled his oar out of the water. He scrutinized Jondalar thoughtfully, noting his concentration. His blond hair was pulled back and tied with a thong at the back of his neck, a good precaution. He had adopted the clothing of the Ramudoi, which had been adapted from that of the Shamudoi to suit life near the river.

"Why don't you head back to the dock and let me out, Jondalar. I think it's time you tried it alone. There's a difference when it's just you and the river."

"Do you think I'm ready?"

"For one not born to it, you've learned fast."

Jondalar had been anxious to test himself on the river alone. Ramudoi boys usually had their own dugouts before they were men. He had long since proved himself among the Zelandonii. When he was not much older than Darvo, and hadn't even learned his trade or reached his full growth, he had killed his first deer. Now, he could throw a spear harder and farther than most men, but, though he could hunt the plains, he did not quite feel an equal here. No river man could call himself a man until he had harpooned one of the great sturgeon, and no Shamudoi of the land, until he had hunted his own chamois in the mountains.

He had decided he would not mate Serenio until he had proved to himself that he could be both a Shamudoi and a Ramudoi. Dolando had tried to convince him that it wasn't necessary for him to do either before mating; no one had any doubts. If anyone had needed proof, the rhino hunt had been sufficient. Jondalar had learned that none of the others had ever hunted a rhino before. The plains were not their usual hunting ground.

Jondalar didn't try to rationalize why he felt he had to be better than everyone else, though he had never before felt obliged to outdo other men in hunting skills. His strong interest, and the only skill in which he ever wanted to excel, was flint knapping. And his feeling wasn't compet.i.tive. He derived personal satisfaction from perfecting his techniques. The Shamud spoke later to Dolando privately and told him the tall Zelandonii needed to work out his own acceptance.

Serenio and he had lived together so long that he felt he should formalize his tie. She was almost his mate. Most people thought of them in those terms. He treated her with consideration and affection, and to Darvo he was the man of the hearth. But after the evening when Tholie and Shamio were burned, one thing or another always seemed to interfere, and the mood was never quite right. It was easy to settle into the same routine with her. Did it really matter? he asked himself.

Serenio didn't push-she still made no demands on him-and maintained her defensive distance. But recently, he had surprised her staring at him with a haunting look that came from the depths of her soul. He was the one who always felt disconcerted and turned away first. He decided to set himself the task of proving he could be a full Sharamudoi man, and he began letting his intentions be known. It was taken by some to be an announcement of Promise, though no Promise Feast was held.

"Don't go too far this time," Carlono said, getting out of the small vessel. "Give yourself a chance to get accustomed to handling it alone."

"I'll take the harpoon, though. It wouldn't hurt to get used to throwing it while I'm at it," Jondalar said, reaching for the weapon that was on the dock. He placed the long shaft in the bottom of the canoe beneath the seats, coiled the rope beside it, and put the barbed bone point in the holder attached to the side and fastened it down. The working end of the harpoon, with its sharp tip and backward-facing barbs, was not an implement to be left loose in the boat. In case of accident, it was just as difficult to pull out of a human as out of a fish-not to mention the difficulty of shaping the bone with stone tools. Dugouts that capsized seldom sank, but loose gear did.

Jondalar settled himself on the back seat while Carlono held the boat. When the harpoon was secured, he picked up the double-sided paddle and pushed off. Without the ballast of another person sitting in front, the small craft rode higher in the water. It was harder to handle. But after some initial adjustment to the change in buoyancy, he skimmed swiftly downstream with the current, using the paddle like a rudder off one side near the stern. Then he decided to paddle back upstream. It would be easier to fight the current while he was fresh and let it carry him back later.

He had slid farther downstream than he realized. When he finally saw the dock ahead, he almost turned into it, then changed his mind and paddled by. He was determined to master all the skills he'd set for himself to learn, and they were many, but no one, least of all himself, could accuse him of stalling to put off the commitment he had promised to make. He smiled at the waving Carlono, but he didn't let up.

Upstream the river widened and the force of the current lessened, making paddling easier. He saw a sh.o.r.eline on the opposite side of the river and made for it. It was a small secluded beach, overhung with willow. He pulled in close, skimming the shoals easily in the lightweight boat, relaxing a little by letting the craft glide backward while he steered with the paddle. He was watching the water in a desultory way when suddenly his attention focused on a large silent shape beneath the surface.

It was early for sturgeon. They usually swam upstream in early summer, but it had been a warm and early spring with heavy flooding. He looked closer and saw more of the huge fish gliding silently by. They were migrating! Here was his chance. He could bring in the first sturgeon of the season!

He shipped the paddle and reached for the sections of the harpoon to a.s.semble it. With no guidance, the small boat slued around, scudding with the current but slightly broadside to it. By the time Jondalar attached the rope to the bow, the boat was at an angle to the current, but it was steady, and he was eager. He watched for the next fish. He wasn't disappointed. A huge dark form was undulating toward him-now he knew where the "Haduma" fish had come from, but many more that size were here.

He knew from fishing with the Ramudoi that the water altered the true position of the fish. It wasn't where it seemed to be-the Mother's way to hide Her creatures until Her secret was revealed. As the fish neared, he adjusted his aim to compensate for the refraction of the water. He leaned over the side, waited, then hurled the harpoon off the bow.

And with equal force, the small boat shot in the opposite direction along its skewed course, out toward the middle of the river. But his aim had been true. The point of his harpoon was deeply embedded in the giant sturgeon-with little effect. The fish was far from disabled. It headed for midchannel, for deeper water, moving upstream. The rope uncoiled rapidly, and, with a jerk, the slack ran out.

The boat was yanked around, nearly pitching Jondalar overboard. As he grabbed for the side, the paddle bounced up, teetered, and fell into the river. He let go to reach for it, leaning far over. The boat tipped. He clutched for the side. At that moment, the sturgeon found the current and plowed upstream, miraculously righting the boat and knocking him back into it. He sat up, rubbing a bruise on his shin, as the small craft was towed upstream faster than he'd ever gone before.